


you look like a world, lying in surrender

by seventhstar



Series: bad people in good love [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Anal Sex, BDSM Scene, Cock Cages, Consensual Mind Control, Dirty Talk, Dom Victor Nikiforov, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, M/M, Married Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sub Katsuki Yuuri, Telepathic Bondage, Telepathy, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 09:25:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12129453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar
Summary: “You’re late.”“Sorry, Viktor.”Yuuri blinks at him behind wet lenses.He’s pink with steam and anticipation, clutching a towel in his hands. He keeps his head down as he approaches, and starts to drop to his knees; Viktor grabs him by the hair before he can lean forward and nuzzle against Viktor’s knees.“You’re dripping all over the carpet, Yuuri.” Viktor pulls on his hair and watches him wince. The towel sits abandoned in his lap. “Now you’re going to ruin my suit, too?”





	you look like a world, lying in surrender

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iambic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iambic/gifts).



> This is a first of a number of sidestories I have planned, since the actual fic is in Yuuri's POV and starts five years after Viktor and Yuuri meet. 
> 
> The others are plot relevant, so you won't get them until I get the main fic sorted, but this one is just me being a pervert, so...here y'all are.

The pearls are lustrous and gleaming, a perfect compliment to Yuuri’s pretty neck.

Viktor closes the jeweler’s box and sets it on top of Yuuri’s clothes, stolen from the bathroom while he showers. Yuuri will protest Viktor’s extravagance when he sees them; it’s not easy to get him to accept he deserves nice things, no matter how much pride he actually has. Yuuri is stubborn.

Viktor doesn’t mind. He knows very well how to get Yuuri to do what he wants.

The water shuts off, and Viktor adjusts his tie one last time in the mirror before seating himself on the edge of the bed, facing the bathroom door. He flicks the knob on his power limiter up to the highest level, so he can give Yuuri his full attention. He waits as Yuuri steps out of the shower, as he slips on his glasses, as he sees the empty space on the counter. It’s a signal they’ve used before. Viktor feels the burst of arousal in Yuuri, and smiles.

The door opens.

“You’re late.”

“Sorry, Viktor.”

Yuuri blinks at him behind wet lenses.

He’s pink with steam and anticipation, clutching a towel in his hands. He keeps his head down as he approaches, and starts to drop to his knees; Viktor grabs him by the hair before he can lean forward and nuzzle against Viktor’s knees.

“You’re dripping all over the carpet, Yuuri.” Viktor pulls on his hair and watches him wince. The towel sits abandoned in his lap. “Now you’re going to ruin my suit, too?”

“I didn’t mean to…”

“What were you doing in there for so long?”

“I was taking a shower.”

“That’s it?” Viktor pulls on his hair again, forcing Yuuri’s head up so that he can’t look away. “You didn’t touch yourself?”

He doesn’t actually know if Yuuri did, or not—Viktor gives Yuuri privacy about certain things. Besides, it doesn’t matter. Viktor can find an excuse to punish him regardless.

“No, I-I did.”

“I don’t remember giving you permission to come today, Yuuri.”

Yuuri’s face reddens, and his eyes flick down. “No, you didn’t…”

“Tch. Give me that.”

Yuuri hands over the towel, and Viktor makes him get up; he sways, off balance as his legs rearrange themselves without his permission. Viktor dries him off briskly, not lingering anywhere, until Yuuri’s eyes flutter closed as Viktor wipes the water off his face. Viktor plucks Yuuri’s glasses off. His lips are chapped, and there are dark circles under his eyes. There’s the beginnings of acne along his hairline.

Viktor doesn’t point out any of these things, which he knows would upset Yuuri unduly, and instead picks up his hand and drags his thumb over the inside of Yuuri’s wrist.

“You’re dry,” he says. “Go and get the lotion.”

He waits. Yuuri scrambles over to Viktor’s suitcase, which is sitting open on the floor, and riffles through it until he finds three tubs of body butter insider. Viktor can hear Yuuri’s internal turmoil as he tries to figure out which one Viktor wants. He picks one, not wanting to keep Viktor waiting, and Viktor holds out a hand as he collapses back onto his knees at Viktor’s feet.

Yuuri’s brought the rose-scented one, which is what Viktor wanted, so he takes the tub and pats Yuuri on the head.

“Good boy. On the bed.”

Yuuri lies, facedown, atop the covers. Viktor slides a pillow under his head, and then taps the back of his neck as he makes Yuuri relax.

He can’t actually shiver in pleasure, with Viktor keeping him boneless, but Viktor feels Yuuri try.

It’s hard, Viktor thinks as he applies lotion to Yuuri’s shoulders, to manipulate someone’s body effectively. Non-telepaths write about freezing every muscle in a person’s body, without considering muscles are what make the blood flow and the lungs inflate.

Viktor works his way down one arm, than the other. Yuuri’s biceps are solid, his forearms hard, his fingers long and bony and deceptively beautiful. They could kill, those fingers, but Viktor kisses each palm, each knuckle, and Yuuri only sighs.

No, bodily controlling someone is about delicacy. It’s about being able to prevent conscious movement without interfering with any of the body’s autonomic processes.

It’s about precision.

Viktor rubs cream in along Yuuri’s spine, inching downward until he reaches Yuuri’s lower back and hips. He’s put on a little weight, and his sides are soft; Viktor digs his fingers in.

“Ah, don’t,” Yuuri says.

“Excuse me?”

“…sorry.”

He doesn’t sound sorry. He doesn’t feel sorry, either, and Viktor pinches him hard enough to make him gasp before continuing down over Yuuri’s ass. Viktor would like to linger here, but he doesn’t, not yet. Yuuri has to earn it, after all. Besides, he doesn’t need to. As he progresses lower, down the backs of Yuuri’s thick, perfect thighs, Yuuri grits his teeth and puts his face against the pillow, which is what he does when he’s aroused and can’t move enough to get any relief.

Viktor smirks and tickles the back of Yuuri’s knee. He lingers there, feeling Yuuri’s pointless attempts to squirm away despite having no control over the muscles in his legs, and then starts in on Yuuri’s calves.

By the time he’s gently rubbing in lotion between Yuuri’s toes, Yuuri’s muffling his whimpering in the pillow.

“Turn over.”

“I can’t.”

Viktor sighs and _makes_ him turn over.

Yuuri is hard, cock red and wet between his legs, and his nipples are tight, and he has his lip between his teeth. Viktor wants to eat him up; he makes Yuuri open his thighs.

“Getting hard without permission, Yuuri?” Viktor works the lotion into Yuuri’s shins. He has yet to find even one square inch of dry skin. “Can’t you control yourself at all?”

“You’re the one who—”

Viktor presses his mouth against Yuuri’s thigh, fine dark hair against his lips, and Yuuri trails off. He can’t move, after all, so every touch is a little threatening.  Viktor listens absently to his jumbled thoughts— _ah, he’s kissing me, no, please_ —and bites down. There’s too much muscle for him to really sink his teeth in. Yuuri is strong—Viktor has seen him throw a car, jump up onto a third floor balcony.

All that power at Viktor’s fingertips.

Viktor’s mouth passes so close to Yuuri’s cock that his cheek brushes against it, and then, ignoring Yuuri’s whining, he spills a line of pink lotion over Yuuri’s stomach and begins rubbing it in. Unlike his thighs, Yuuri’s belly gives under Viktor’s ministrations; he is never as vulnerable as he is when Viktor digs his fingers into his plush stomach.

“Lower,” Yuuri says.

Smiling, Viktor licks up the line between Yuuri’s pectorals instead.

“Trying to tell me what to do, Yuuri?” He smears cream across Yuuri’s chest, deliberately dabbing over each nipple.  “As if you could.” He takes Yuuri’s nipple between his fingers, pinches gently. Then harder. Harder.

Pain lends all Yuuri’s thoughts a sharp edge. Viktor inhabits him a little more, feels a jump of phantom pain on his chest. He could prevent it, but he doesn’t; sharing Yuuri’s mind is always a double-edged thing.

He’s the only person Viktor loves this much.

Finally, he reaches Yuuri’s throat. Yuuri once admitted to a fear of being choked, and so Viktor brushes the lotion over his neck with a feather-light touch. He moves from the tip of Yuuri’s stubborn chin to the hollow between his collarbones, until the skin shines and the scent of roses overwhelms his senses.

Viktor’s not depraved enough to put body lotion on Yuuri’s face—he has decent moisturizer, he’s not a heathen—so he settles for kissing Yuuri on the cheek and then paralyzing him while Viktor gets up and starts straightening his clothes.

Yuuri stares at him. Viktor feels the throb in Yuuri’s cock between his own legs, but his powers work on himself, too, and he manages to keep from getting hard. Yuuri is panicking a little, floundering as Viktor turns his back to him to smooth down his lapels, and Viktor lets himself sink into Yuuri’s thoughts further. He reads the tenor of his fear and wonders if he should stop, or check in with Yuuri, or ease off on him.

Yuuri is struggling against Viktor’s paralysis. He wants Viktor to come closer.

Viktor adjusts his cuff links, not that they need adjusting, and drinks in the futile psychic pressure of Yuuri’s attempts to move. It’s cute, how easily Yuuri falls apart. If Viktor were actually mean to him…

“Where are you going?” Yuuri asks when Viktor looses his hold on his vocal cords. “Viktor, don’t—don’t leave.”

“We have meetings today, Yuuri. I can’t spend the rest of the evening on you just because you can’t stop being a slut.”

“I’m not—”

“I fucked you this morning, didn’t I?”

Yuuri mouths soundlessly at him. The word ‘slut’ has had a powerful effect on him—his pupils are blown—his thoughts are a storm, nothing coherent. A strand of sweaty hair is stuck to his forehead.

Viktor traces the vein on the underside of Yuuri’s cock with a fingertip and Yuuri cries out like he’s been punched.

“I asked you a question.”

Pleasure is curling up in Yuuri like smoke from a fire. He blinks at Viktor and Viktor listen to him struggle for the answer—not that he remembers the question. Viktor lets himself sink into Yuuri’s brain like a hot bath, warmth in his chest like a burning coal. His skin tingles.

He turns Yuuri’s face towards him. “Well?”

“Please don’t go.”

“You want me to stay?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to touch you?” Viktor strokes the line of Yuuri’s jaw. “You want me to delay my important business just because you can’t make it twelve hours without my dick?”

“Viktor—”

“That’s pathetic, Yuuri.”

He starts to walk away, like he’s really going to leave, and Yuuri whimpers like he’s been slapped before he starts begging.

“Wait. Wait, Viktor, don’t leave me—I need you—come on, Viktor, please just touch me, just for a minute, I’m—I’m sorry—” He tries to sit up, and Viktor lets him get up onto his elbows before his arms give out under him again. Through his eyes, Viktor’s back looks impossibly intimidating.

He can feel Yuuri’s fluttering heart in his own chest.

He takes another step away.

“Viktor, don’t go, I just—please. Please.”

Yuuri is breathing hard. His hand twitches toward his cock before Viktor weakens his limbs again; it falls limp onto his stomach only inches away. Precome is dripping down the side of his cock. Viktor has to stop himself from holding Yuuri down and licking it away.

“If that’s really the best you can do…”

He moves towards the door again. Yuuri’s desperation is almost a physical thing, like having a song stuck somewhere in the back of his mind, inescapable. Viktor’s pushing; he might break.

“I’m a slut!”

Viktor stops.

“I am. I can’t help it, Viktor, I’m sorry. Please.” Yuuri’s eyes are burning with tears. One drips hotly down his cheek. Viktor turns around to watch him squirm on the bed like he’s being pinned by invisible hands, trying to draw on strength that isn’t there. “I need you.”

His eyes close, and so Yuuri doesn’t see Viktor lean over him, doesn’t realize he’s there until Viktor brushes away the tears clinging to his lashes. Fear and pleasure war within him. He leans his face into Viktor’s hand; his tongue flicks out to touch Viktor’s palm.

Viktor taps the back of his hand against Yuuri’s face—not a slap, just the threat of one.

“Just a little bit, I’ll be good while you’re gone—I’ll do anything—” He breaks off with a cry of pain as Viktor grabs him by the hair and pulls.

“You look pretty when you cry.” This is a lie—Yuuri is an ugly, snotty crier, but he’s already self-conscious about it, and Viktor doesn’t want him developing a habit of hiding his tears—that Viktor delivers without shame. “You really want it, Yuuri?”

“Yes,” Yuuri hisses. “Yes. Please. I’ll die if you don’t fucking touch me.”

“Well, we can’t have that.”

He sinks down between Yuuri’s spread legs, rests his hands on Yuuri’s trembling thighs. Viktor takes his phone our of his pocket and hands it to Yuuri, who can barely hold onto it. Viktor could loosen his hold on Yuuri enough to leave him _good_ fine motor control, but where’s the fun in that?

“Five minutes,” Viktor says. He flicks his tongue over the tip of Yuuri’s cock; Yuuri arches like he’s been touched with a live wire. “And not a second longer.”

Yuuri fumbles through setting the timer, and the phones slips between his numb fingers to land on the bed. Viktor glances at the screen; it’s running.

“Viktor—”

“Shh.”

Viktor kisses slowly up Yuuri’s cock, lips lingering from root to tip, wet open-mouthed kisses that leave the taste of Yuuri on his tongue. Yuuri is gritting his teeth so hard there’s a faint ache in Viktor’s jaw. Softly, Viktor sucks at the head, take it into his mouth, lets it go. He squeezes Yuuri’s thighs; there’s sweat on Yuuri’s skin there that he turns his head to lick away.

“Ah—” Yuuri tries to talk, and Viktor shuts him up with a thought.

He scrapes his nails up Yuuri’s thigh and takes hold of his hips; grips Yuuri hard enough that there’ll be marks. Viktor takes Yuuri’s cock into his mouth again, sucking gently until he’s halfway in. Yuuri’s limp body is in stark contrast to the wanting that pervades his every thought; Viktor knows that if he let Yuuri go, he’d thrust up into Viktor’s mouth, flip them over and fuck his throat. He wants it so, so badly.

Three minutes have passed. Viktor lets Yuuri’s cock slide out of his mouth again and licks instead—soft kitten licks that drive Yuuri’s thoughts into a frenzy. His arousal is a physical thing, a tingle going down Viktor’s spine. He mouths at the underside of Yuuri’s erection. He can feel Yuuri’s heartbeat against his lips—rabbit quick—as fast as Viktor’s own.

The precome leaking from Yuuri’s cock is too tempting. Viktor laps it away, drawing little circles with the tip of his tongue, relishes in the taste.

Yuuri’s stamina is incredible; most of the time he can get Viktor off twice before he gets himself off once. Five minutes isn’t nearly enough usually. But in this state…

Thirty seconds left.

“Well?” Viktor asks. He smiles at Yuuri’s wide eyes and parted lips before kissing the sensitive spot under the head of Yuuri’s dick deliberately. “Are you going to come or not, you stupid little whore?”

Yuuri sobs as he does, spurting all over himself. Come splatters over his stomach, his thighs, Viktor’s cheek.

Viktor keeps his hands on Yuuri’s hips to ground him and waits. Yuuri’s mind is totally blank, wiped clear by the intensity of it all; he can’t be pushed just yet. There’s sweat and tears mingling on his cheeks. He looks blotchy, and his expression is screwed up with emotion, and he looks objectively terrible. Viktor loves him fiercely.

“Shh.”

Yuuri mouths something, and Viktor takes pity on him and lets him speak. “Fuck,” he whispers.

“So you can follow simple commands after all,” Viktor says. “I was beginning to wonder. Good boy.”

Yuuri sighs with pleasure.

“You promised me you’d do anything if I touched you, Yuuri.”

“I did,” he says, dazed. “I-I will.”

“There’s a box in my bag. Go get it.”

Viktor gives him a few seconds, and then forces him to sit up and get off the bed. Yuuri’s movements are sloppy as he stumbles over to their luggage; the moment Viktor stops controlling him, he drops like a puppet with cut strings to his knees beside Viktor’s suitcase. He unzips it and peers in, squinting; Viktor still has his glasses.

The box is black, glossy, unlabeled. Yuuri spends too long holding it and looking confused, and Viktor makes him rush back to the bed and fling himself down onto the mattress. He takes the box from Yuuri’s unresisting hands, and smooths his sweaty hair out of his dark eyes.

“What is it?”

Viktor strokes his cheek, then opens the box and turns it so Yuuri can see. “Something to help you control yourself.”

Yuuri swallows. “But I…”

“You’re too weak to do it yourself, right?”

He nods. “Yes, Viktor.”

“Good. Put it on.”

Viktor watches keenly as Yuuri lifts the cock cage out of the velvet-lined box. It’s golden, gleaming bright, made so that there are plenty of gaps for Viktor to tease him through. He doesn’t know how to put it on, and Viktor psychically guides his hands. He pushes his cock through the ring at the base, then his balls, fingertips playing over the soft skin there. The cage fits snugly over his soft cock—gold looks so good against Yuuri’s skin—and he offers Viktor the tiny lock in the center of his outstretched palm.

Viktor kisses his hand before he takes it and fastens it in place.

“I’m going now,” he says. “Can you wait here and behave yourself?”

“Yes…”

“Oh.” Viktor rummages in the nightstand and produces a bottle of lube. “Be ready when I come back.”

Yuuri squirms, staring determinedly somewhere to Viktor’s left, and Viktor shoves him onto his back before he makes Yuuri meet his eyes. The idea of displeasing Viktor thrills and embarrasses him all at once, and there’s an undercurrent of anxiety—what if Viktor doesn’t come back?

“I would never abandon you, Yuuri,” Viktor murmurs. He gives Yuuri a long, long kiss goodbye, and then he wipes his face and leaves him in the hotel room alone.

He slumps against the wall in the hallway; the effort of not getting hard is wearing on him. Viktor’s powers only work so well on himself, and Yuuri is so pretty, letting Viktor do whatever he likes with him.

He turns the limiter back down; after so many years, the sudden increase in the volume and numbers of minds barely registers.

Viktor will monitor him the whole time he’s gone, of course—it would be impossible to think of anything but Yuuri, sprawled out across the tousled covers, gently prepping himself with slick fingers, stopping every few minutes as his cock strains against the confines of the cage—just in case Yuuri needs something. He’s not really worried about Yuuri’s physical safety. If Yuuri wanted to be out of the cage, or out of the room, he could do it with the same effort he’d expend blinking.

But if Yuuri gets upset or drops, Viktor will know. He does, in fact, have a meeting, but no one is going to bat an eye if he leaves without warning. He has a reputation for being difficult.

 

 

 

 

Viktor eases open the hotel room door as quietly as he can. The lights are still on; Yuuri is lying facedown on the bed, legs open, cheek resting on a pillow. There’s the telltale gleam of lube visible on the inside of Yuuri’s thighs, on his knuckles. His thoughts are whisper-soft, and his eyes are closed; only his fingers curled into the covers reveal his anticipation.

All of Viktor’s blood rushes south.

Viktor sets the take-out box of noodles he’s carrying in the minifridge—Yuuri hasn’t had dinner yet—before sitting down on the edge of the bed. He strips off his suit jacket and folds it before setting it on the nightstand, then discards his tie, too. He toes off his shoes and peels off his socks.

Yuuri’s lashes flutter. “Viktor,” he breathes.

“Darling,” Viktor says. He strokes Yuuri’s soft hair, down his back, until his hand slips between Yuuri’s legs to where he’s wet. Yuuri’s hips lift as he pushes back against Viktor’s hand.

“Mm.”

Yuuri’s tired. Viktor smirks as he presses his fingertips in. He’s waited long enough.

“Up.”

Braced on his elbows, Yuuri pushes up with his knees until his ass is in the air. He spreads his thighs wide. Viktor admires him as he unbuttons his shirt, takes off his undershirt, palms himself through his dress pants before unzipping. Yuuri watches him as he finishes undressing, eyes fixed hungrily on Viktor’s cock.

The cage dangles heavily between Yuuri’s legs; Viktor can feel Yuuri fixate on the weight of it.

Yuuri was innocent when Viktor found him. He had never had a serious lover, barely explored his own furtive desires. That first fumbling encounter, Yuuri clinging to him in the ice rink, set a standard that Viktor knows that no one else will ever meet.

Even now, as he settles in on his knees behind Yuuri, Viktor can’t help but think that the arch of Yuuri’s back is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

(He turns the limiter back up to nine. No distractions.)

Yuuri rests his forehead against the pillow as Viktor lines himself up.

“You’re quiet.”

“I need you,” Yuuri whispers. “I didn’t—I’m—I waited.”

He licks his lips; he’s thinking about the way Viktor kissed him before Viktor left.

“I know.” Viktor gropes beneath Yuuri, teasing Yuuri through the gaps in the cage. Yuuri’s cock starts to swell, and he bites into the pillow to muffle a scream of impatience. “Keep waiting. I’m not done with you yet.”

Yuuri is so hot inside—his hole is slick—and Viktor keeps him from clenching down with a thought. He thrusts into Yuuri’s ass without restraint, nails leaving red marks in the soft skin of his waist. Nothing can compare to this, to the sensation of it, being inside Yuuri and having him. Yuuri scrabbles at the sheets for purchase. Every thrust makes his half-hard cock swing painfully.

Viktor shifts the angle of his thrusts, forcing Yuuri to lift his hips more—Yuuri lets out a high-pitched cry of pleasure and pain—as their skin slaps together loudly.

“Fuck!” Yuuri says through gritted teeth. He struggles weakly. “Stop—stop, Viktor, that hurts—” He slumps onto the bed, knees folded beneath him, as Viktor shuts him up again.

The ache in his cock drives all coherent thought out of Yuuri’s mind. There’s only pleasure and agony in the absence of him thinking, and Viktor sinks down into it, lets his own thoughts crest over Yuuri like a wave. He fucks Yuuri like it’s the last time. He takes him like he owns him.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he says.

Yuuri lifts his head off the pillow. “Yes.”

Viktor slumps over Yuuri’s back as he comes. He nuzzles Yuuri’s shoulder as Yuuri whimpers at the feeling of Viktor’s seed dripping out of him; he wants to come, so badly, and he can’t. He’s shaking. Viktor holds onto him, as Yuuri regains what’s left of his composure, and waits.

“If you’re still this sweet in the morning,” Viktor says, “I’ll take it off.”

“I can’t.”

“Don’t you want to make me happy, Yuuri?” He watches the blush crawl down Yuuri’s cheeks. “Well?”

“I do…”

He sounds exactly the way he did during their first wedding.

(All right, so maybe making sure all their aliases are married to each other doesn’t count as getting married again, but they have never been married under their real names—even if Viktor wanted to, he has no proof of his identity—so Viktor chooses to see each connection as a separate wedding. Besides, multiple weddings mean multiple honeymoons.)

“Good.”

Viktor leaves Yuuri long enough to pour them both glasses of water and turn out the light. Yuuri accepts the glass that Viktor presses into his hands, and drinks it in one long gulp. Viktor offers him dinner; Yuuri refuses. He’s not really hungry, so Viktor lets it go. He gets them both under the covers.

Yuuri clings to him in the dark. Viktor tucks him under his chin and lets the dizzied spiral of Yuuri’s thoughts lull him to sleep.

 

 

 

 

Despite Yuuri’s hatred of mornings, the smell of bacon and eggs and waffles drizzled with butter and syrup is enough to make him stir. Viktor sets the breakfast tray on the nightstand, beside Yuuri’s glasses, and drinks his coffee while he waits.

Yuuri’s dreams were tempestuous, full of masochistic fantasies. He woke twice in the night, cock squeezed between gold rings, and buried his pained groans in Viktor’s chest. Viktor pretended to be asleep, just for the pleasure of listening to Yuuri try desperately not to wake him; he wonders if Yuuri can get through a full meal without begging. He hopes not.

He watches as Yuuri rubs at his eyes, and rolls over, and finally manages to find his glasses and jam them onto his nose. His stomach growls loudly.

“Eat.”

Yuuri sits up, blankets tangled around bare legs, and yawns. Viktor puts the tray in his lap; he picks up his fork and slowly begins to eat the eggs. There’s still steam coming off of them. Yuuri sighs with pleasure when he swallows.

Viktor finishes his coffee without tasting it and watches Yuuri’s throat bob up and down. He moves from eggs to bacon and from bacon to pancakes. Powdered sugar ends up smeared on his cheek. As his fork scrapes across the plate for the final bite, Viktor can’t help himself; he sits down at the edge of the bed and licks away the sugar on Yuuri’s skin.

“It’s morning.” Yuuri licks his fork clean, slowly. “You promised.”

“Did I?”

He takes the tray away. Yuuri lies back against the pillows, head tipped back, and pushes down the covers just enough to give Viktor a glimpse of gold. His fingertips graze over his chest, trailing down over his stomach, until his hand is resting on his thigh. Viktor watches Yuuri’s fingers flex.

Viktor meets Yuuri’s gaze. Two years and an eidetic memory, and Viktor still hasn’t learned all the faint variations of color in the brown of Yuuri’s eyes. Maybe he never will. Maybe he’ll have to spend the rest of life looking into them.

“Please?”

“But I like having your cock locked up, Yuuri.” Viktor leans in close enough to touch his lips to Yuuri’s ear. He digs his fingers into Yuuri’s limp cock through the spaces between the rings of the cage. “I like having you like this. Like a toy. Like a thing for me to use.”

Yuuri makes a very soft sound, and his fingers brush Viktor’s wrist. Viktor slaps his hand away.

“You want it off?”

“Yeah.”

“Show me.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before Yuuri pounces. He straddles Viktor’s lap, one arm around his his neck, and starts kissing Viktor frantically, so hard their teeth click together. His mouth is warm, the flick of his tongue electric—Viktor’s nails dig into Yuuri’s scalp as he holds Yuuri’s head in place—and he tastes faintly of sugar and maple.

Yuuri’s free hand caresses Viktor’s side, over his ribs and his hip, before it wanders between Viktor’s legs to wrap around his erection. He rubs the palm of his hand against the tip to wet it, and then he starts to stroke Viktor. It’s rough, uncoordinated, clumsy. Even his thoughts are wrecked; a bomb could go off, and as long as Viktor kept his hands on Yuuri’s skin, he wouldn’t notice.

It’s a heady feeling. Viktor licks into his mouth, trying to not to moan as Yuuri’s thumb presses down on the tip of his cock, and holds Yuuri flush against him with his free hand.

He can hear the clicking of the lock against the cage. Yuuri bites at his lip—his pain is briefly Viktor’s pain—and breaks off to bury his face in Viktor’s shoulder. Viktor pulls Yuuri’s hips against him, warm metal and warm skin plastered against his belly. The heat in his groin intensifies.

“Viktor,” Yuuri says, and Viktor, Yuuri thinks, thought and voice both full of desire.

They shudder in tandem as Viktor comes messily all over Yuuri’s thighs.

“I love you.” Yuuri swipes a finger over the mess on his stomach and puts it deliberately in his mouth. “I love you, Viktor, I’ll be yours any way you want, I promise—but please—”

“Shh.”

The key is hanging from a chain slung over the corner of the headboard. Viktor snags it and slots it into the lock.

He turns the key. It clicks, the lock opens, and Yuuri’s eyes fall closed in bliss as Viktor starts to take the cage off. Yuuri’s cock is half-hard already, and Viktor has to cut off Yuuri’s sensation for a minute to get his burgeoning erection to subside; when the cage finally lands on the floor behind him, the blood rushes south, and Viktor feels rather than hears Yuuri’s gasp as his cock starts to fill again.

He tries to put a hand between his legs, and Viktor hits him hard on the thigh.

“Brat.”

Yuuri flushes. “Can I touch myself?”

Viktor considers. “No,” he says, and he pulls Yuuri flush against him again. Yuuri rests his forehead against his, his expression a study in satisfaction, and crosses his arms behind Viktor’s neck. Viktor puts his hands against the base of Yuuri’s spine, urging him on. Yuuri barely needs the encouragement—the moment Viktor touches him, he starts grinding against Viktor furiously.

He holds Yuuri while Yuuri ruts against him, Yuuri panting a hairbreadth from his mouth. Yuuri is terribly oversensitive, and when he tries to slow the pace of his thrusts Viktor only makes him rub against him harder—Yuuri’s thighs tremble with the effort of resisting—his cock is twitching against Viktor’s stomach—

He comes like he’s been struck, spilling hotly over Viktor’s skin, clawing at his back. The intensity of it knocks every thought from Viktor’s mind. Yuuri is shaking. He cradles Yuuri in his arms, their heartbeat and breath in perfect sync.

“I love you,” Viktor whispers.

“Okay,” Yuuri says.

He doesn’t say, “I love you, too,” but Viktor doesn’t need to hear it. He can hear every thought in Yuuri’s head, feel every feeling in Yuuri’s quivering heart. He knows.

 

 

 

 

Yuuri always needs time to cool off alone after a scene, and so Viktor tucks him back into bed after he’s been cleaned up and gets his laptop. He works for a while, sorting through the complex web of numbered accounts and aliases tied to their money, absently scanning through the thoughts of everyone in a one mile radius to make sure they’re not being closed in by any enemies, sending Chris a message in regards to a job. Even criminals have a certain amount of overhead, at Viktor’s caliber; the people who can find him to offer him jobs tend to have complicated and expensive problems they want solved.

Yuuri drifts for a while, not really thinking about anything, just cataloging sensation, and then Viktor feels a sudden sense of urgency.

“Wait, didn’t we have a meeting today?” He sits up, scrambling.

“It’s in the evening.”

“Oh.” Yuuri rolls over until he’s plastered to Viktor’s side. Viktor abandons all thoughts of productivity and set aside his computer so he can hold Yuuri tightly. “What’s the job?”

“Sabotage. Some kind of new computer chip.”

“Just us?”

“For now.”

Yuuri nods. He doesn’t like to work with strangers. Viktor doesn’t, either, although not for the same reasons.

“Do you feel better now?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m not too hard on you, am I?”

Yuuri snorts. “You’re not being hard enough.” He hesitates. “If you could actually slap me…”

“No,” Viktor says. The idea of actually backhanding Yuuri in the face makes him feel ill. Yuuri catches his expression and ducks his head, embarrassed.

“You were worrying before. I thought it might take the edge off if we played.”

Yuuri says nothing. Viktor nudges him mentally, wordlessly asking for permission to look and see; he shakes his head. The urge to press is there, but Viktor suppresses it; when Yuuri needs his support, he’ll ask for it.

Even if he’s trying not to read Yuuri’s mind, it’s hard to ignore that fact that he’s thinking about something weighty. His eyes have a certain look, when he focuses. Viktor is so attuned to Yuuri that he wakes up in the middle of the night whenever Yuuri has a nightmare, whether they’re sleeping in the same bed or on different continents. The edge of worry in Yuuri’s mind is like a splinter digging directly into Viktor’s brain.

He strokes Yuuri’s soft hair and waits.

“I read this theory,” Yuuri says finally, “that we eroticise things we’re afraid of.”

“Oh?”

“That’s how the brain…I don’t know…processes the fear. Is it true?”

“You ask me as if I’d know.”

Viktor presses again, and this time Yuuri nods.

 _“You’re_ the telepath.”

“Mm.” Viktor draws Yuuri a little closer. He doesn’t know if he likes the implication of Yuuri’s words. Is Yuuri afraid of Viktor hurting him? Afraid that Viktor might turn his powers to abusing him? “Do you?”

He _could_ look in Yuuri’s mind and find out, but he’s not sure he wants to know.

Yuuri contemplates. Viktor sees Yu-topia for a moment, the main room where they first laid eyes on each other, a sake jug slipping between Yuuri’s slack fingers.

“I…”

“What are you afraid of, my love?”

 _Don’t fear me,_ Viktor thinks, and he shoves the thought deep inside himself. Viktor disciplines himself in so many ways that he allows himself full indulgence in everything that remains, but he would never hurt Yuuri, never put Yuuri in danger, never let anything happen to Yuuri if he could prevent it. Yuuri is the only person in the world who loves Viktor just as he is, and Viktor can read minds, so he _knows_ it’s true.

Yuuri trails his fingers over Viktor’s chest. He’s thinking about being alone.

“Darling—”

 _He’s getting tired of me,_ Yuuri thinks.

He thinks it flatly; he see it as a matter of time. Viktor scowls at Yuuri’s skewed view of the world.

Viktor has known for a long time that Yuuri no longer needs Viktor. He’s not that boy anymore, fresh from Hasetsu, in need of protection. Yuuri is strong, intelligent, mostly sensible. If anyone’s going to be left behind, it’s Viktor.

He doesn’t say that, though. Viktor is selfish. If he tells Yuuri that Yuuri doesn’t need him, and Yuuri agrees, Viktor will lose everything—no, it’s best to let Yuuri realize it on his own. Maybe he’ll take pity on Viktor and keep him around.

“I bought you something.”

“Yeah?” Yuuri is staring at his own hand. “Is it another pink Cadillac?”

“That was a perfectly good present.”

“You just wanted an excuse to have one.”

“Are you really saying you got no enjoyment out of that car at all?” Viktor teases. Yuuri is the one who crashed the convertible, after a lengthy car chase through the countryside and the total ruination of the paint job. (Yuuri is also the one who insisted that he wouldn’t be seen in the car with Viktor until Viktor made it up to him by fucking him on the hood. In retrospect Viktor suspects that that was Yuuri’s way of apologizing in advance for wrecking the car.)

“It was shit around the turns.”

“Everything is shit if you insist on driving at a hundred-fifty around a forty degree turn.” Viktor kisses him on the temple and then reluctantly untangles their legs. “But no, this really is just for you.”

He retrieves the velvet box and deposits it with a flourish in Yuuri’s outstretched hands. Yuuri will never admit to him that he gets a thrill out of being so extravagantly spoiled; he was raised to be sensible about money and has never acquired Viktor’s casual disregard for the price of things. But his eyes light up when he runs his hand over the velvet and feels how soft it is.

He opens the box.

“Ack,” Yuuri says. His eyes are like portholes. _“Viktor.”_

He touches the pearls gingerly, like he might break them, and yet when Viktor starts to tug the box away he won’t let go. Sometimes he touches Viktor the same way—like he’s a fragile thing, like Yuuri might die without him.

“Do you like it?” Viktor picks it up and holds it against Yuuri’s throat.

The touch of the pearls against his neck makes him jump. The collar is four strands of pearls thick, white and black and pink, with small strings of multicolored pearls dangling down, just long enough to brush Yuuri’s back and hang invitingly over his collarbone. The clasp is in gold, studded with tiny sapphires; it closes, and Yuuri reaches up to touch his own throat.

Viktor offers him the image of himself, the way he looks through Viktor’s eyes, in lieu of a mirror.

He stole the pearls from a royal family, from the neck of a princess. Viktor paid a jeweler to remake them, into something that could only hope to do Yuuri justice. Yuuri is thinking that Viktor is too much, that he could never wear jewelry like this and not look ridiculous, but under all that is the faint note of pleasure that he pretends not to feel.

“It’s…” Yuuri trails off. “It’s beautiful.”

The echo of a memory comes, unbidden; Viktor hear himself in Yuuri’s mind. _Because—I won’t let you go._

 _Stay,_ Yuuri thinks. It’s a private thought Viktor knows he wasn’t meant to hear. He wants to tell Yuuri he’ll never leave him, but maybe knowing that Viktor can hear his private fears would be unnerving rather than comforting.

“Leave them on.”

Yuuri’s finger drop from the nape of his neck.

They curl back up together in bed. Viktor drops down his power limiter to eight again. Here, in the quiet of the morning, Viktor can hear people bustling away at work, cab drivers complaining about traffic, the low-level hum of irritation from students in morning classes. And over it all, as clear as a bell, the sense of Yuuri beside him, worrying. Always worrying.

How ironic—Viktor could uncover every one of Yuuri’s worries, even change his mind so that he never worried again, force him to open his mouth and just tell Viktor what it would take, to convince him that he’s it. Viktor has never loved anyone else like this before. He doesn’t think he has it in him to love anyone else like this ever again.

Which is why he’s helpless, as always. There’s nothing Viktor can do to comfort Yuuri but be here with him.

He’ll just have to hope that it’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to james for all the feedback and support.
> 
> comments are the coal in this trainwreck tbh, please leave them


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